


You Can't Tell Me No

by bulgarianmobsterjerseytrashpieceofshit



Category: Original Work, original character - Fandom
Genre: M/M, OC, original - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 19:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13554519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulgarianmobsterjerseytrashpieceofshit/pseuds/bulgarianmobsterjerseytrashpieceofshit
Summary: For a man who owns the very planet and the people that populate it, Luce Corson finds it perplexing and infuriating to find himself denied every opportunity to enjoy himself and his twisted tastes by a simple, if not brilliant doctor. His doctor.Rather than wait and play the long game, Luce decides to do something about his desires and confronts the man outright.





	You Can't Tell Me No

Sexual frustration was equal parts invigorating, and infuriating when a man bore the entirety of the world in the palm of his hand and could demand anything of it on a whim. Anything, apparently, but release from a single being hell-bent on infuriating him beyond reason for no apparent reason. 

Luce Corson could command anyone to their knees, or to splay out across his desk, or to simply come sit on his dick and get him off; he could, and he had on more occasion than one without so much as batting an eye. Sex was as much a tool as it was a pass-time as it was a stress-reliever. With the right subject, it could be just about anything. With all of that ability to command and demand, it became a profound befuddlement that he hadn't been able to coerce his very attentive medical lead to do the deed with him. Attempts had been made, of course. From pleasant professional request to nearly outright demanding it of Tobias Remington. Each attempt had been politely, or impolitely declined without more thought than one would give to a passing foul smell. He was not simply a passing foul smell, but a permanent fixture in Remington's life and whether or not his employee liked it, he would have his way. 

Draping himself into an overstuffed chair and regarding the paperwork smoothed out across the sturdy surface, his dark eyes flicked around in search for a probably reason to find himself once more in Rem's office. Technically he did not need a cause, but it abated suspicion less when he had something for the medical minded man to observe. Parting his jaw as he thought, Luce ran the tip of his tongue over the edges of his teeth and leaned in to seize up a sharp but thin blade. Flicking the black-hued metal from its protective casing, he leaned back and took his time pressing the pads of each digit to the tip, nearly puncturing at least six of them before he regarded his own body with mild appreciation. A specimen to be revered and worshiped. Licking his lips, he arched the blade across his left palm and hissed at the sweet bite of that blade before bringing the scarlet-tinted thing to his lips to clean with that devilish tongue. “Unfortunate.” He crooned to himself, tilting his palm one way and then the other to watch thick rivulets of sanguine collect and slowly trail the deep gash. 

Climbing to his feet, and swiping up the gathering blood in his palm, he strode with an ease despite the growing interest still tucked away behind underwear and a pair of slacks nearly more expensive than the last pet he'd purchased, never having realized quite how far the short trek to Remington's office was when he had an ardent need to satisfy primal urges. 

Shoving into the man's space, he was relieved to see that his medical head was alone, nose deep in a text of some sort. Tucking the door closed behind himself, a mild flick of the wrist locked it, even if there weren't a being alive (or mostly living) brazen enough to interrupt them when Luce was being tended to. Clearing his throat when Remington did not immediately greet him with an actual look, Luce made quick work of the space between doorway and desk, and set his hand (and subsequently the text Rem had been reading) down before the bespectacled man and grinned one of those cat that caught the canary expressions as a fresh rivulet of blood slid onto one of the stark page. “Fix me.” 

Releasing the book, Remington fixed Luce with a look that was mild annoyance, and even milder intrigue. A sliver of a gash rolled from one edge of Luce's palm to the other, a perfect line, a perfect incision. He'd seen many like this on his employer, and had repaired many like this for his employer—it was fresh, in perfect condition for stitches, and therefore a massive globule of swift-drying glue would close the wound up to avoid reopening for Luce's sick amusements. When his lips parted, a breath inhaled meant to express something, Luce piped up first with a light tut of his tongue. “My hand slipped.” As if the explanation were needed. 

“I was not going to ask.” Rem offered, bemused as he withdrew from his chair to collect a kit meant to clean and repair the gash in Luce's palm.

“You weren't?” Luce clucked a handful of moments later, and Remington felt the hair rise on the back of his neck and upon his arms—there was a static charge to the air like lightning had just struck, or a predator was sighting him... And the shorter man's breath was upon his skin. When Rem turned, he was nearly chest to chest with Luce, a disturbing realization considering he hadn't even heard the man move. 

“No.” Rem swallowed his momentary terror and fixed Luce with a mild scowl when he realized he'd been bracketed in. “Pity.” Dark brows pulled to the center of Luce's brow and the man took a step forward, guiding Remington predictably into taking a small step back... Toward his desk. 

“It didn't slip, did it?” Rem offered, hoping conversation would earn Luce's disinterest when the backs of his thighs finally found the sturdy wooden desk he'd just moved away from. 

“Of course it did.” Luce lifted his hand as if to observe the broad smear of blood and that gash before he planted it upon the center of Rem's chest and shoved hard enough to press the man down onto his desk, supine for the moment. “Intentionally, of course.” Slotting himself between Rem's thighs, the older man inhaled sharply when he felt the curve of Luce's erection pressed firmly against the seam of his own pants. “Actually, I shouldn't have discarded the knife.” He thought idly, shoving again when one of Rem's hands rose to grip at his wrist—he would not be displaced. Clicking his tongue, flashing a momentarily savage grin, he leaned down with the majority of his weight against Rem and dragged his teeth over the man's jaw up until they met nearly the corner of his lips. “But it won't be an issue, because you are going to do what I tell you to do, and you will enjoy every moment of it... Or you won't, either way it doesn't really phase me, because I will enjoy it.” Licking his lips, he tasted Remington's skin and felt a heated roiling of desire creep up into his chest. It too dug its claws into his spine when he leaned down and bit hard enough upon Rem's lower lip to elicit a sharp gasp in response to the pain. Hushing him, and smoothing the hurt with an almost-gentle kiss, Luce's fingers snaked their way over Rem's shirt front first, snapping the buttons holding the stained fabric shut with two sharp tugs. When he felt the surgeon's skilled hands rising to shove at his shoulders, that gashed palm shot forward and snatched Rem's throat, shoving his head back with an audible crack against the bloodied text. 

“Do not.” Luce warned with a sharp hiss, and then a milder, pleased noise at the way blunt nails bit into his skin. Rem's throat bobbed beneath his palm, offering only faint sensation to the gash, but enough to earn a momentary reprieve from undressing the doctor to observe the scarlet splash against the older man's skin. “Did you know that red is your color?” The compliment came with a soft, private chuckle as he tightened his grasp on Remington's throat and dragged his nails over the man's bared chest and belly. Luce's mouth watered, and despite Rem's choked off verbal and physical protests, he dipped his head down and bit a mark into the subtle curve of Rem's left pectoral. Muscles jumped beneath his teeth and his hands, and Luce grinned against that freshly bruised skin. 

If ever anything could be said about Luce, it was that he enjoyed pain; inflicting it, and being inflicted with it, that Rem was so responsive to every little sensation only served to rile Luce up more.

Sliding his free hand to the button and zipper closure of Remington's britches he felt an almost violent jerk from the man, as if he could go anywhere with such a sturdy surface beneath him. “Luce, Don't.” Rasping out those words firmly, Rem shifted again to no avail. His pants and the plain dark-blue underwear beneath them were shucked down swiftly, and a warm palm set to cupping his flaccid, and obvious, disinterest whilst Luce shifted to grind himself slowly against one of Rem's thighs. It did not seem to dissuade him any that the taller man were still struggling against the firm hold upon his throat or that hand wandering lower. It hadn't bothered him, anyway, not until Rem's thighs clamped around that wandering palm. 

“Spread them.” The younger man growled, blunt nails striking against the skin until he'd managed to tear his hand free. Blocking out the verbal protests, he leaned down to bite a handful more bruises into Remington's torso before he withdrew the hand at Rem's throat. “Fine—don't comply.” 

With him seeming to withdraw, a faint sigh escaped Rem and he'd started to push himself up before a violent, jerky set of movements twisted him around to lie face down against the desk. In the movements, he'd managed to swing a couple of firm hits—landing one with a sickly crack to Luce's jaw... Apparently even that weren't enough to encourage the lust-hazed minded man to withdraw and rethink his intentions. It only earned a hand in his gray-dusted tendrils and a snapping set of teeth at the shell of his left ear, that his elbow landed somewhere against Luce's chest meant nothing at all beyond the sort of rough-housing his employer delighted in. “Luce—Luce—stop!” As he attempted once more to drag his head away from the sharp grip in his hair and the teeth clamped down upon the curve of his ear, a wounded sound escaped him. Despite his general interest in medical work, and his tolerance to most pains, something as simple as those teeth against his skin mingled with the very real horror that Luce would not stop, left him more susceptible to the pain and less capable of blocking it out. “Luce—“ Remington hissed again when that body shifted against his own, Luce's free hand tearing away what remained of clothing barricading his teeth, tongue, and body from tasting and touching despite protest. He had always admired the fine appearance of his employer's clothing, had always found the texture to be almost soothing despite the unruly predator contained within them. There was no comfort in the feeling of those silky fabrics pressed to the newly bared skin now. They felt as cold and cruel as the act to be committed.

Luce's teeth marked their way over Rem's shoulder, and slowly he smoothed a hand between cool fabric and hot skin, mapping out the scarless expanse of Rem's back. What a shame, he would have to remedy that. The lower those fingers drew down his spine, the stronger the urge to dig his nails into that supple skin was, and so urge became reality despite the tensing and sharp jerking attempts to get away. Whether Rem was aware of it or not, the thrashing only encouraged his hunger. 

Shoving down with the hand curled within Rem's hair, Luce clicked his tongue and eased back enough to tear at his own clothing. It was a messy ordeal, fortunately he had no shame in the lightning quick action that effectively stripped him free of the frustrating confines, nor the aching erection he was eager to bury within his medical professional. Offering a handful of admiring strokes, and a faint shudder at the blissful friction, his fingers tightened their hold within Rem's hair and once more he slotted his form against the man. 

The weight and firm press of hips flexing against the cleft of his rear earned a sharp shudder and a faint growl of frustration from Remington. “Luce—“ His tone had dropped from desperate to angry, but his attempted demand was silenced by a jerk of his hair and a sharp press of hips. Hissing, he up, he caught Luce's wrist in a bruising grip that grew only firmer when his employer's hips shifted to line up the spongy, blunt head of his prick with the taut ring of muscle. 

“Luce, please do not do th-” His protest died with a sharp inhale meant to stifle a pained cry when hips bucked against his rear, and Luce's prick drove messily past his untried entrance. If the sensation needed be rated on a pain scale, Remington was not entirely certain he could fathom a number for the blistering pain that seized the entirety of his body and dragged a moan out of Luce. He was aware of the jostling shift of Luce's hips against his own, the sharp bit of teeth cutting into his unmarred shoulder, and a warmth against his cheeks before the unreal pain became a very vibrant, very persistent burning. The tears were his body's reaction to the shock of Luce's assault, and as he realized this his nails bit into the man's skin at his wrists, earning more positive noises from his employer than he'd wanted to hear in that moment. If not for the pain rattling through his body with each cruel thrust, Rem might have thought himself dreaming. In hindsight, contributing to the pain Luce was feeling, had been a poor idea, considering his affinity for it. Between that clawing grip on his wrist, and the hand that snatched at Luce's dark hair when his teeth pressed into his shoulder, Rem wasn't certain his damages would do much more than contribute to Luce's pleasures. 

At least one of them was enjoying themselves. 

Time seemed to drag to a shuddering halt, devolving instead into the sharp, harsh thrusts of Luce's hips slapping against the subtle curve of Rem's rear and the hot simmering burn of nails biting welts into his back and hips at war with the physical rending of his entrance. When he was certain that Luce had spent himself, there came no reprieve from the unwanted intrusion. 

Lying himself against Rem and exhaling a slow sigh of content, he chuckled into the new bruises dappling his medic's spine. The soft sounds triggered a new tension in his back, drawing Luce's nail's across them once more before his gashed hand slid along the blood-crusted front of Rem's throat. “You still need to fix this.” His tone was richly sated, calmer and less edged than it had been before this entire ordeal had begun. Offering a tentative firm squeeze, he felt Rem's throat bob against the gash. Crooning another soft moan, he bit one last harsh mark into Rem's skin before drawing himself off of and out of the older man. Standing above him, realizing and admiring his work, a slow grin etched its way back onto his features and languid movements were made to clean up his appearance—at least enough to where he could return to his own office without being glanced at sideways. Remington's chorus of whimpers and pained mewls still a ghastly echo in the very front of his mind. 

A handful of long strides, far less burdened by the ache of need, carried him back to the other side of the desk where he settled to watch Rem gingerly collect himself. Luce's handiwork were a strident brand against otherwise unmarred skin—still such a shame—but he beamed with pride as Rem collected tattered and discarded clothing and that kit he'd meant to grab to help Luce's injured hand. When he sat, it was as though he'd been speared, and another ardent roil of glee washed over his features. Remington would be forced to think about him with ever small movement, every time he sat or removed his shirt, and that thought was purely satisfying.

Without lifting his red rimmed gaze, or scrubbing the salty streaks from his cheeks, Tobias set the kit down and sat with a rigidity meant to counteract the pain of sitting. Withdrawing the antiseptic solution and soft cleaning pads, a shaking hand seized Luce's palm wrist, and the other scrubbed almost ruthlessly over the wound. It wouldn't bother Luce—not being earning a few flinches and a half-lidded look of victory—but it helped the older man to some degree. As did pouring the super-glue substance across the gash in Luce's palm. With it was dried, and he tested as much with a couple of digits prodding along the sealed seam, he set his hands upon the bloodied book and dipped his head. 

“Is there anything else I can help you with today, sir?” To his credit, Remington's voice was completely smooth, unwavering, and almost bored. 

“No, that is all.” Luce offered a quick pat to those folded hands before striding from the locked door, leaving his medic to clean up the mess his actions had caused.


End file.
